Some Days
by Rayne-Jelly
Summary: There's a world of shadow, an underbelly to the light of heroics, and a brutal honesty concealed in the villainous light. To a boy who has nothing left to live for, this is sanctuary. And to the boy that wants to take it all away... Slash.
1. Home Coming

_P.S. Happy Birthday_

Tremors shot from his shoulders through to his calves, shaking him. Making every inch of him quake uncontrollably.  Cracking his back and resettling on the floor, Harry Potter resumed his work. History of Magic was always extremely dull, but if there was one thing that was even more excruciating, it was History of Magic at 3 am with no television and a head cold. Or was it hay fever? Harry couldn't tell any more, he was too sick. 

He only had so much time to finish his essay; it wasn't so much that he was procrastinating as much as he hadn't found the time. Now he was pressing himself to get it done in time to meet Hermione in Diagon Alley. Undoubtedly she would ask him about it, demand it from him under the guise of help, and then scold him furiously for not having done it properly.  

"Achoo!" Harry suffered a terrific sneeze and threw down his quill in frustration. His face was splattered with errant ink droplets, and though he couldn't see it yet, he could feel dawn, just below the horizon. The sun was slowly creeping towards him, inevitability. Harry didn't necessarily want the sun to rise, the longer he got to sleep the better, but it would happen anyway wouldn't it? With a groan, Harry pushed himself off the cold, threadbare carpet that helped to somewhat pad the hard wood of his bedroom and crawled on his bony knees to his bed.  His eyelids felt like sandpaper grating over peeled grapes every time he closed them. If he slept now, he could just catch 5 hours of sleep before he had to wake up and avoid getting his toes stepped on by Dudley. Then he might have an hour to shower, get dressed, and hop the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley.  

It was so strange to be thinking about tomorrow – today – like an ordinary day. The truth was, nothing was ordinary any more, nothing had been since…

Another shudder wracked his body so Harry gave into it and pulled his quilt around him, and did his best to fall asleep. 

~

The putrid stench, it wasn't far from his face, right on top of him, grasping, clawing, tearing at his mind like a rabid animal. Seeking an escape, seeking a victory, but he wouldn't let him get away again.  His skin was cold, clammy, like wet pie dough under his fingers as he grappled with it, trying to find purchase, a tiny rupture, even a molecule that wasn't as cohesive and tough as this snake's skin.  His assailant's hair was trapped under his fingernails as he pulled against that thick doughy skin, finding a hold, pulling, ripping it apart like half congealed glue.  Was there screaming somewhere? Who was screaming? He was calm wasn't he? Cooly ripping apart his mortal enemy. No, surely he was screaming, for his entire body burned, his head ached, flashed and tore with a searing agony.  He was screaming, he was crying, his bones were humming with a power that wasn't his own, and Voldemort was screaming with him. They couldn't escape, trapped, pressed together in this airless void, with his stink swarming his nostrils and clogging his senses. He was dying, he knew it, they were both dying, it was just a question of who would go first.  Even his teeth seemed to glow white fire, hot blood dripped into his eyes, he could taste Voldemort's sweat, everything was sweltering, loud, crackling fire, acrid smoke, building to the climax, one of them would win…. 

Everything was cold.  Icy, frigid, lonely he was dead, but which he?  Voldemort of course, the other… he might have been dead, he couldn't tell, he couldn't remember what it felt like to be alive.  All he knew was emptiness, all he knew was loneliness, all he knew was that he knew nothing. Lots and lots of nothing.  If that were possible. It was cold in nothing, cold, freezing, piercing, white cold, like ammonia it bit into him.  Penetrating every inch of him, were he to cry his tears would turn to ice before they left his face, but he had lost the ability. His heart felt like it was encased in ice, each vein, capillary, every valve and muscle wall had become like more solid than meat in an ice locker.  He wanted to die…

A pair of arms snaked around his waist, holding him, warming him. He was so comfortable as the embrace tightened reassuringly, he felt safe, wanted.  One mysterious hand moved up, securing itself around his shoulder, gently massaging the fresh scar with a thumb. The other moved down to rest on his jutting hip bone, he shuddered against the touch, though it wasn't disgust, fear, or cold that induced this shiver. He sighed in contentment, slumped against the body that owned those hands, he was warm here, he was cold here, he was everything that he hadn't been before… 

~

With a gasp, Harry shot out of bed, his chest heaving.  "What the hell was that?" 

"Are you up boy?!" His uncle bellowed, thumping on Harry's door as he passed, the man had been unable to attain anything quieter than a roar, and he never gave much effort for Harry. 

Harry was up, more alert and awake than he'd been in weeks; every inch of him was standing at attention, including an embarrassing six. Harry groaned, "Aw, what the hell…?" 

~

"Harry! Harry you made it!" Hermione cried, rushing towards him. She stopped just short of him, physically restraining herself from launching at him. She managed to hold herself back for all of two seconds before wrapping him in a crushing hug.  Harry stiffened, then squirmed out of it as soon as possible, unable to palate physical contact anymore, her warmth was nauseating. But for all that he escaped her grasp as soon as possible, no one could escape being subjected to Hermione's scrutiny. "Oh, Harry, you're too thin! I can feel your ribs, have you been eating properly? My you've gotten tall!"

Harry smiled wryly at her, every day she got more and more like Molly Weasley, as though her own parents had no bearing on her up-bringing.  He _had_ gotten taller, much to his relief, while he was no towering monster like Ron, he was no longer the shrimpy 5'4" he had been.  In the two months that he'd been away from school, he'd grown four inches, and was now checking in at a respectable 5'8", though the food he ate could hardly compensate for the rapid change, and he was inordinately thin.  Without his shirt on he could easily count his ribs.  

Molly Weasley's sixth son, and Hermione Granger's beau of late came loping up to them, significantly slower than Hermione herself had done.  His long legs carried him across Diagon Alley towards them, and as he neared, Harry could see he had grown as well. He towered over his friend, a silly grin on his face, and his red hair shining like a torch.  "Hey Harry!" He called, finally reaching them, Harry noted with much chagrin that he had to look up. "How are you?" 

Harry's grin vanished at the sight of his friends' eager eyes, they were sincerely worried, glowing with a desire to care for him, it made his skin crawl, but he carefully considered the question for their sake.  How was he? Was he happy, unhappy, great, miserable? There were a lot of options open to him, he really could have been anything, but at the moment he wasn't any of it. Nodding along with the rhythm of his own thoughts he said, "I'm okay I guess." It was vague, but he was feeling rather vague. Of course, everything was vague now. 

"Okay Harry…" Ron said tentatively, "Hey! I almost forgot! Happy Birthday!" 

A package was thrust in Harry's direction, a box-like thing, poorly wrapped up in paper and ribbon. The brunette took it tentatively and unwrapped it, something scrabbled inside the box and Harry almost dropped it in shock. Inside were two, lumpy little shells that were… moving.  There was a pregnant pause, then Harry began to laugh, it started as a mild chuckle and developed into a somewhat hysterical belly laugh. Ron had bought him hermit crabs. "Oh god." 

"What?" Ron looked panicked, "What did I do?"

Hermione was chuckling silently, eyes twinkling with mirth, "You bought him a Muggle novelty gift."

Ron looked smug and happy, "Good, it was supposed to be a novelty." 

Hermione shook her head good naturedly, Ron was an idiot sometimes, but he was a good hearted idiot, and he loved her.  "Here Harry." She said gently as she pressed something into his hands.  

Harry carted the object to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and sat on the stoop before opening it, setting the hermit crabs to the side. They really were too cute, in an ugly, awkward sort of way.  It was a book of course, with some strange symbol on the front and on the back, a picture of some old hag.  The title read, "The Missing Piece: A Novel."  

"It's an allegory." Hermione began immediately after the wrapping had been discarded, "The author is a councilor for people who've suffered losses." 

Harry's incredulous look turned into a glare, he didn't need Hermione's unsubtle attempts at self-help propaganda, especially not on his birthday! Hermione coughed nervously and shot to her feet, dashing into Fortescue's with an excuse of, "I'll uh… get us some ice cream." 

Ron didn't say anything as he poked at the crab cage, he didn't say anything until Harry sighed heavily and muttered, "He's dead. Everyone's dead. Big deal." 

"She cares about you."  He fell into silence for a moment, letting one of the crabs touch one of his long fingers, "She doesn't mean to be insulting you know, but it's just like Hermione. When you've got a problem, throw a book at it." 

Harry tried to grin but didn't quite succeed, it was difficult to grin when there was nothing to smile about. He just wanted to run, clear his head, it might be good for him.  

Ron, when he wasn't being an insufferable prat, was wise in his own way. He'd gained his father's gift of being able to diffuse almost any situation, but he'd gained his father's temper too. "Thanks Ron," Harry said obligatorily.

Hermione returned with mounds of ice cream, heaped upon waffle cones. Harry blanched and forced down a gag at the sight of the ice cream, his stomach refused to accept the offering. There was no telling what he would do if actually forced to eat it, vomit, scream, faint.  The ice cream dripped in the heat as he accepted it, the pink melt of the strawberry tracing a fine line across his skin. He couldn't even bring himself to lick it off, the thought sickened him, and suddenly he found himself thinking about brussel-sprouts and half rotted corpses, desperately trying not to show his friends how repulsed he was.  The whole situation stunk too-sweet perfume, like the kind Pansy Parkinson wore, cloying and revolting. 

Neatly disposing of the ice cream in a near by bush, and miraculously avoiding his friends' notice, he excused himself to wash his hands free of the Pepto-Bismol-pink gunk.  Apparently ice cream had lost its appeal as well. Just thinking of the sugary-sweet strawberry flavored cream sent Harry to the nearest cubicle, retching up the minimal contents of his stomach.  Everything was so deplorably nice, the sun was shining, the grass was green, the birds were singing and everyone in Diagon Alley was delightfully happy.  

Harry felt immensely out of place as he slumped against the cubicle wall, was he the only person that missed Voldemort?  The man had been such a powerful force in his life for his entire school career – for as long as he had been alive. He'd been building himself up for the sole purpose of destroying the bastard. Now what was he supposed to do? He'd killed a man, he'd deliberately murdered a human being and there was no turning back from that. All of his guilt over Cedric and Sirius seemed to disappear with Voldemort, all the things he enjoyed in the past seemed too saccharine now.  

He always knew that he was strange when it came to things like this. He knew that he should have been able to laugh and play just like he used to, eat sweets, carry on without a care in the world, struggle through his homework just like a normal person his age…. He _wanted _to do those things, but he found it impossible.  He felt too cold on the inside for a normal life.  Like a spent coal, everything Harry had, had been used up in that last battle, all the energy and passion that defined his life in the past was gone, and there was nothing left to enjoy.  The sympathy he received when he woke up in the infirmary was dizzying, nauseating, then Madame Pomfrey shoved chocolate down his throat. He hadn't been able to hold down the chocolate then, or much food since.  There was a reason he was so thin. Everyone else had first a party, then a pity-party. He threw up.

Harry didn't need a sense of purpose anymore, he'd learned his lesson when Sirius died, he didn't want to rescue anything, he just wanted to start living. The Dursleys were the only people that didn't treat him like a national treasure, something he was extremely grateful for. To them, he was the same irritating burden that he'd always been, though they would no longer accept him in their home after this school term. He would need to find somewhere else to live very shortly. 

The door behind him creaked and Harry glanced around, finally spotting the bony ankles of Ronald Weasley. "Hey mate? You all right?"

Harry blanched, there again was the glowing sympathy, the dazzling array of pity that just made his skin crawl.  Without another word, he turned away and began throwing up again. 

~

There was such a sense of familiarity in this, it wasn't comfortable, but it was something he was used to.  Somehow this situation was one of a very few that didn't want to make him scream.  This was normal, how things had always been, before Voldemort, he was treated the same here, he felt the same here.  His aunt was at some function, his uncle busy firing people at Grunnings, Dudley was home for the summer holidays, and he was up to his old tricks.  For a moment, Harry convinced himself that everything was exactly as it was ten years ago. 

Piers Polkis had his arms, twisting them painfully behind his back.  The rat-faced boy was whispering things into his ears, distinctly disturbing things, he lived for this; he thrilled in the power and the cruelty.  He felt it thrumming through every fiber of his being, it was base, it was gratuitous, but it was a simple thing to say that he got off on this. Piers Polkis, one of Dudley's over-indulged friends, someone coddled by his parents, his teachers, life – Piers Polkis truly enjoyed participating in the routine torture of Harry. "I love it when I've got you like this." He hissed, twisting Harry's bony wrists painfully. "When you're helpless, I could do anything I wanted, and you couldn't complain. Just like a little dog." He pressed Harry to him harder by yanking his arms down, "anything." And to prove his point, Piers' tongue snaked out of his mouth and traced the fine skin behind Harry's ear.  Dudley couldn't see this action.

Harry jerked and bit back a grunt of pain as his shoulders nearly left their sockets. He didn't care if he got beaten to a bloody pulp every day, it was nothing he wasn't used to, but this brand of sexual sadism filled him with disgust and loathing.  "You stupid, sadistic little bastard." He spat.  Piers yanked him tighter and this time Harry couldn't quite suppress the squeak of pain that escaped his gritted teeth.

Whether Dudley suspected the comment was directed at him, or Piers, it made no difference to him.  The muscle he had packed on was begging for some usage, summer vacation meant no readily accessible punching bags… save Harry of course.  It didn't matter how things began, all that mattered, was that it hurt. It was pain.  

One of Dudley's well calloused fists would come soaring at him like some missile, a bludger with an amazingly controlled flight path, and then it would connect.  When that happened, Harry stopped thinking in similes and metaphors, and started thinking in terms of medical bills.  A knocked out tooth (replaceable with a drop of skelegrow in the proper place) a broken rib or two, bruises, cuts. Harry had remedies for them all, but there was no remedy for the pain.  

His toes curled up as Dudley took a swing at his face, so Piers stepped on his foot, crushing them flat as he absorbed the impact and kept Harry from falling over. Harry could feel his jaw bone crack under Dudley's meaty fist.  He could hear it.  He sighed in familiar agony as Dudley's knee connected with his stomach, forcing the air from his diaphragm.  He felt the cracking pain of his shoulders as he jerked forwards reflexively. Then the blows blurred together, the blood splattered in too many directions to count, the damage became irrelevant, and the pain became overwhelming. 

As that happened, Harry's mind wandered. Dudley wasn't sadistic, he thought. He wasn't malicious by nature, he felt distraught when he heard tales of human suffering.  Surprisingly, since his very young years as an insufferable bully, after his first few boxing matches (having been hit harder than he would have imagined possible) Dudley gained an understanding of life and its intricacies. He only hurt the people that signed up against him, and he only hurt the people that could fight back.  He never willingly harmed other people. It wasn't that he particularly despised Harry to treat him in this manner, Harry simply wasn't a person to him.

Harry wasn't a person to any Dursley, he wasn't anything. He wasn't as well respected as a pet, he wasn't as priceless as a zoo animal, he wasn't a bug to be simply crushed, merciless but painless. He wasn't any type of life form, he was furniture, he was a foot stool, a back scratcher, a wall, a door, a robot, a punching bag – he didn't have emotions, he couldn't feel pain. He was a wizard, something far less than human to Dudley.  

Piers was different, something infinitely more disturbing than Dudley ever was. Piers, he hated Piers, and Piers, who in his youth displayed signs of being normal, was the type of kid that tortured animals.  Harry briefly wondered if given the opportunity, Piers would torture him by roasting like he had Mrs. Delaney's dog.  The thought was fleeting, knocked out of his head. 

Harry didn't know of anyone like that at Hogwarts, he didn't know much of anything anymore. Did he still have homework?  

It took Harry a moment to realize that Dudley had stopped beating on him, was he unconscious? No, he ached too much, he could still feel Piers' hold on his arms, he could feel himself slumped weakly, relying on Dudley's atrocious friend for support. His feet hurt too much to support him, he was too dizzy to stand on his own. He could still see the taupe carpeting below his dirty yellow sneakers, he could hear Dudley sigh in frustration, clearly he was still awake. "Come on," his cousin said petulantly, "this is no fun. Let's go play that new computer game I got for a coming home present!" 

As Dudley raced up the stairs to start his computer, Piers set Harry on the couch with surprising gentleness.  The Muggle boy stayed a moment, letting himself linger while Dudley was occupied in his room, he brushed a gentle hand through Harry's hair, then his fingers traced the contour of his jaw.  "You really are priceless when you're helpless." He said, leaning down, and placing a kiss on the corner of Harry's mouth that wasn't seeping blood and saliva.  "I could do anything." He whispered. "Anything, if you weren't Dudley's." 

A pained sigh, a grateful sigh escaped Harry's lips as Piers followed Dudley up the stairs, allowing Harry his rest. It was a surreal moment as Harry thought, perhaps it was a good thing he belonged to Dudley, but he had no time to ponder it as he slipped into unconsciousness.   

The rocking was abrupt, throwing him from side to side.  It was warm, torturously warm. Dudley again? The very well heated (kept at precisely 74 degrees Fahrenheit thank you very much) Dursley residence?  The rocking persisted, becoming rougher before it stopped.  Somewhere in the distance a note sounded, like the lingering vestiges of a dirge, haunting.  Suddenly that single note became a scream of the exact same pitch, rising in crescendo, it was so loud.  Harry was thrown to the floor, and crashed head first on to the compartment floor as the Hogwarts train came to an abrupt halt.  

His eyes opened, he sat up, looking in askance at the best friends he knew were there, though he could not see them because his glasses had been knocked askew.  "Wha?"  A hand flew to his mouth, why had he dreamed of that? Why had he dreamed of Piers and Dudley? Why had he chosen to relive that particular memory?

"We were wondering when you were going to wake up Harry!" said Hermione enthusiastically. "We're here, we're at Hogwarts!" 

"Yeah mate, we're home!"

Harry didn't feel very much at home. No, he wasn't anywhere near home. Where ever that was.


	2. Finding Sanctuary

**Author's Notes: **Wasn't Piers creepy though? Couldn't you just see him doing that? Rat bastard. I love that part… does that make me sick and twisted? Anyway, thank you very much JadedRoses and Sapphrine, I hope you like this next installment. 

**Disclaimers: **The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. 

_Some Days_

~

He belonged here, in the dungeons. Pressed flat against the slime coated walls, where it was cool and disgusting.  Chained like a prisoner in the darkness with the rats and the reptiles. Nothing was sugar coated down here, he was beginning to see why Snape liked it so much. Harry enjoyed his solitude, curled up in a corner with a book and his wand, he often fell asleep in a lost corridor, it reminded him of simpler times, his child hood. The spider webs were thick as pea soup and there were slick spots on the stone, spots where the lake water above him had corroded the ceiling and dripped on the ground like a mother's heartbeat.  It was some of the best rest he'd ever gotten in Hogwarts, cool, comfortable, the air remarkably clean, if stale.  If he weren't obligated by school policy to sleep in the Gryffindor tower at least once a week, he would live down here, never attend class, never see the light of day again, it would be perfect and bitter. A surrounding for his soul.  

He had developed a cough, it was unsurprising surrounded by the mold of the dungeons, but it was a small price to pay.  The mold was just a part of life, like everything else down here, it stunk, it was uncomfortable, but it was real. Every time he saw one of his old friends, he shied away from them, he didn't mean to be rude, and he knew he was hurting them but he couldn't stand their company any more. Like sugar, like warmth, like Weasley sweaters, there was a memory attached to every face. A memory that haunted him, for there would never be another day like that, his entire life had changed.  Everything that defined him in the past had a different flavor, it didn't seem real anymore, like all that was good was false.  The truth was not a happy thing, the dungeons were not a happy place, but they were honest.  

Dumbledore had lied to Harry for the last time, and he was dead because of it.  Harry still remembered that day, he remembered it like yesterday, better than yesterday, it was the start of everything.  Voldemort rose in the middle of the night. The earth rumbled, the foundations of buildings in Hogsmeade shook apart, a curse was placed over the halls, students and teachers alike were drawn towards the Great Hall to bear witness before they were cut down by Death Eaters, and then Voldemort emerged.  For the first time in it's remarkable history, Hogwarts was invaded by evil, Harry's other half had entered with a bang, and only one of them would emerge alive.  

Harry had been plagued by nightmares and subsequent insomnia, he was wide awake when it happened, yet he had not been the first to arrive, it was a sight he was not prepared for. Watching people he'd known for years fall at the hands of people he had pegged as evil years ago, and watching people he had pegged at evil working for his side. It was bizarre and terrifying, standing in his pajamas, remarkably calm, it was surreal. He thought he was secure in the walls of Hogwarts, but Voldemort had been biding his time, waiting for Dumbledore's wards to fail in some way. Harry wasn't the first person in the Great Hall, but neither was Dumbledore, the old wizard was struck down before he had a chance to defend himself.  Harry recalled watching in awe as Dumbledore, the regal wizard that had coached him, the fatherly figure that had tried to protect him failed, caught off guard by a poorly aimed spell.  He crumpled to the ground, unnoticed by anyone but Harry as the chaos seethed around him.  

And so Harry killed. He fought just like everyone around him, of his own will he spilt blood and threw himself into a fight like never before.  Dumbledore had lied to him, in the past he had been in every way an innocent bystander, wallowing in guilt that wasn't his. He had been a casualty of circumstance, but everyone killed in the cross fire was on his conscience.  Now he willingly took life and realized something that changed his life forever, villains kill, but so do heroes, light side, dark side – there couldn't be one without the other.  And so Harry killed. 

Then dawn came.

~

Night fell.  With it Harry could hear the hundreds of students still populating Hogwarts crashing down the stairs for their dinners, their little feet thrumming on the stone like a herd of charged elephants.  There was laughter, it echoed down the hallway, ricocheting off the walls, there was a haunting quality to that laughter.  Like an echo of something very long ago, though reasonably, he had laughed like that but a year ago. 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes ago.  It wasn't so long when he really thought about it.

Harry curled in on himself, he found himself a corner, and shut out the sounds of the happy people.  People that had families, people that didn't lose anyone, the people that had were just… getting better, they were all happily laughing without him.  The moment he'd entered the school people, students, teachers, reporters, and happy citizens bombarded him with questions, congratulations, Harry nearly had a mental break down. All those well wishers, every face smiling, a few crying, hugging him, thanking him. What for? Harry had done just what everyone else had done, he killed. He was just the one that killed the figure head. And himself, he had died too.  Briefly he wondered if the happiness that had died with Voldemort had joined his parents. 

His parents, he was laughing with them, he was so happy with them.  His father was lifting him and smiling happily, his large brown eyes were squinted against the sun, filled to the brim with mirth as he swung his son high over his head. Harry felt himself giggle and squirm, he had never been happier.  He loved the air, he loved flying in his father's strong arms – it filled him with a comfortable glow that saturated every moment with love. The love that every human being craved was evident in their small family – and then it was gone so abruptly that his head spun. 

Harry felt like he'd been ripped from his father's arms, thrown head first into a nightmare. He heard James's bellow "Lily, take Harry!" His mother, crying, pushing him into his cradle and glimpsed her back, her towering form fell.  He couldn't see his parents anymore, he couldn't feel them laughing and smiling, he couldn't really feel anything but fear and later pain.  

He felt Dudley's fists, he felt Malfoy's barbs, he felt it swirling around him like a maelstrom, bringing him to the pin-point catalyst of Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort.  They were so close, locked together in that black tunnel, pressed against each other, tearing each other apart.  The human behind the monolith of evil that was Voldemort was small, Harry's size.  Harry could feel the remarkable similarity between them, Tom Riddle was no more than a boy like himself, a scrawny, skinny, orphan, there was nothing remarkable about Tom Riddle – nothing despite an arcane ability to talk to snakes – nothing but his ego. 

But in those moments, some witnesses say the struggle lasted for a mere fifteen minutes – to Harry it felt like an eternity.  Voldemort's blood tasted acrid, corrosive, like bleach and ash.  It dripped into Harry's mouth as Voldemort rolled over him, desperately grappling for Harry's throat.  Harry scratched at his enemies hands, he felt the clammy skin peel away under his fingernails, he bit and scratched, squirmed away under the oppressive weight.  It would have been so easy to give up, to let the powerful force above him have his revenge – Harry didn't have the energy to wish for his death anymore. Harry just wanted to sleep. He wanted to escape this cycle, fighting, recovering, fighting, recovering, thinking about each other constantly, living with the weight of each other; dying, joining his parents might be a blessing.  

He closed his eyes, he let everything go, and that's when it happened.  Everything exploded out of him, he had an obligation to upkeep, a duty to destroy this monster before him.  He wasn't working under his own power anymore, he was an observer in his own story, he could feel, smell, taste, hear everything that was happening, but he wasn't in control.  His whole world was on fire, he'd never felt more alive and he knew without a doubt he was dying.  Dying, his muscles spasmed, his skin screamed, his throat gave way, his entire body needed to give up, cried for release, and he cried. 

Then it was over, there were no more tears, the tunnel was gone, the danger was gone, all that was left was mop up and emptiness.  And the screaming never stopped, in his head, it never stopped, it echoed, it reverberated, it sang, it cried – in every memory he heard a scream. They fueled Voldemort, they ruined Harry's morale, and they were in his head for all eternity.  

Those arms were wrapped around him. Safe, warm arms that he didn't deserve, arms that would be chopped off by one of Harry's numerous enemies, he knew it. He struggled, but they held him fast, sheltering him. He squirmed, trying to escape the contentment he felt, it wasn't right, it wasn't possible, it shouldn't have been possible, it had to have been a lie.  They were so comfortable, so real, so warm, strong, firm.  Those arms, the body without a face, didn't expect anything of him.  It couldn't be real, never.

"Potter!" 

No more, please no more – he couldn't take anymore demands on his heart, no more. 

"Potter!"  

"No more."

"Jesus Potter, stop screaming and bloody wake up!" 

Harry awoke with a start, his head smacking against the stone wall. When had he fallen asleep?  How long had he been here, why on Earth…? "Professor?"  His voice sounded as groggy as he felt, he was incredibly dizzy – like he'd had one too many butterbeers. 

"Yes Potter, wake up. On your feet.  What the hell are you doing down here Potter?" 

Harry blinked against the light that the recently lit torches cast on him, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as he squinted up at his teacher through dirty glasses. "It would appear as though I was taking a nap Professor… Snape?"

"Who else Potter." It was a rhetorical statement, but Harry could come up with a number of people he would rather see… or could he?  "Potter," Snape sighed, torn between the desire to let James Potter's son rot in his dungeons and the desire to save Harry, the hapless kid that did his best to save everyone but himself.  "What am I going to do with you?" Another heavy sigh, "When was the last time you ate?"

The fact that he had to think about it scared him, "Three days maybe?" but it didn't matter how long he'd gone without food, because he couldn't hold much down anyway. 

Snape rolled his eyes and strode off, Harry in tow, "Jesus Potter.  Was the fan club too much for you? Dungeon rats not a sufficient diet for the celebrity?" 

Harry didn't fight the barbs, instead he gave a wry little smiled with something akin to satire. Some things never changed, no matter how often they stood by each other in battle, they still hated each other with a passion.  "Something like that."      

~

"I'm really worried about Harry," Hermione said quietly, staring at her hands and gently kneading her lower lip. "I miss him."

Ron turned away from her with a 'humph' and returned to eating his eggs in silence.  The red-head was rather furious with Harry Potter at the moment; with absolutely no provocation the hero had been giving his best friends the cold shoulder for weeks. Refusing to speak with them, or even be in their general vicinity.  Ron was upset of course, the hero had every option available to him, friends in all the right places, a cache of money, the fame of having not only escaped Voldemort six times, but having finally defeated him, and the pride and joy of every teacher in Hogwarts. Yet the boy was still unsatisfied, seeking something else and running away from the people that cared about him. 

For some reason, it infuriated Ron to no end to be ignored by someone he thought of as his best friend. The youngest Weasley son found this to be cruel and unusual punishment, having grown up with six siblings and two extremely loving parents, for all that they were busy, one was never ignored.  In fact, privacy was a thing of fairy tales and school days. He didn't understand why Harry was having such a difficult time of life. He didn't seem to be surviving any specific survivor's guilt, he seemed to realize that no death was truly his fault, yet he persisted in this cold treatment of the people that loved him.  It was frustrating, and Ron missed his friend. 

Seamus laid a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder when Ron turned away.  "He'll be back to us before you know it.  It's not like he's gone." 

Hermione looked up and the boys could see she had tears in her eyes so Seamus, surprisingly diplomatic Seamus, who always knew how to lighten the mood slid an arm around Hermione's narrow shoulders.  "If he's not back to Harry in a month, we'll throw him a funeral reception and put a headstone out by the whomping willow 'Here lies the grave of Harry James Potter – died in the second war against You Know Who.' Who knows, maybe he'll fall in it one day." Hermione looked momentarily scandalized before she realized he was teasing her. "If he's not normal in a month," he amended carefully, "we'll go down to the dungeons and beat the stuffing out of him until he is." 

Even Ron nodded to this little plan while someone else looked thoughtful.  The one place he hadn't looked, but why?

~

It was close to midnight, Snape had forced food down his throat, and forced him to keep it there. Harry felt like his stomach was made of lead but no matter how much his body wanted to vomit, the potion Snape slipped into his meal kept it down.  Harry felt like cursing his name, but it would have been futile because he'd already done that. These corridors were expansive, incredible honey combs.  Harry found catacombs behind a passage not marked on the Marauders Map.  One of these days he would modify his father's work, build on it, the map multiple levels, but that would require going up to Gryffindor tower to retrieve it.  Instead, he built a map in his head, memorizing the stones over countless dead bodies, it was really something incredible, even now, after the attack of Voldemort, these structures stood the test of time. They echoed power, and Harry wondered if the bodies of wizards retained some power. Probably not, the magic thrummed from mystery, the wands belonging to each individual set into the stone hummed a tune that no one really understood.  Harry liked it down here, he didn't have to think.  Just like Hermione lost herself in books and studies, he lost himself in the catacombs, memorization, speculation. Thinking without the necessity of thought, an escape from the pressing matters, he liked these dead people. Dead people he'd never seen, never known – the ghosts resided here, but they were more than a memory, and not truly dead to him.  

Harry found himself slumping against the marble slab of a grave – he didn't know whose.  His shoulders shook, he couldn't stand this lump in his stomach, he could feel it, see it, Harry didn't want to be so thin, but he didn't want to eat either.  He wanted to retch, vomit, if Snape had poisoned him there would be no way to expunge the toxin.  Harry just couldn't keep his mind in line, he tried, but it continuously strayed, murder plots, people that should have been ghosts, ghosts themselves, he couldn't concentrate on not concentrating. If a ghost's body was destroyed would he be destroyed? He would have to ask Nick… if he ever got upstairs again.  Damn it Harry!

He stomped his foot, a bit petulant perhaps, but satisfying, he closed his eyes and felt the dust settle around his feet.   What if he never got over this? What if he never gave himself the opportunity to ask Nick? He wanted his life back!  He kicked the wall again and turned away sharply, to sharply.  There was someone behind him, propelling him through the air to land solidly against something warmer than the subterranean earth.  Harry stiffened, but didn't squirm, there was a knife, its thin blade effectively holding his mouth shut with a threat, if not force, and an arm, pinning his hands to his sides.  Familiar arms, strong arms, arms that Harry didn't feel harm from.  This was no Voldemort, this was no Hitler, this was John Wilkes Booth, Jack the Ripper – genocide wasn't on the menu today, just murder.  

"Don't scream." Said a voice behind him, soft, breathless, husky and undisguised, "no one will hear you."  The knife moved, its tip slowly scraping a line down his jaw, leaving a welt that did not bleed and settling at his throat.  Right above his corroded artery, Harry remained perfectly still.

He was calm, his muscles didn't stiffen in fear, the metal was cool on his skin, much like the catacombs. Was this death?  Voldemort had been so hot, stifling, burning, painful, searing, agonizing, but he was still alive – this was cold.  "I wasn't going to scream." He murmured finally, the soft statement released in a sigh.  The tension in his neck died, the discomfort of his stomach forgotten, Harry felt like his bones were the only thing holding him up.  A skeleton, a puppet relying on balance alone, no strings.  He slumped against the person behind him, breathing deeply, he relaxed, fell into the embrace, his neck fell back against the rough shoulder, the person that was blatantly man-handling him.  Growling at him.  

Harry gave up, he knew, with no one here, with no one but himself and the corpses to protect, with no obligations to up hold, Harry relaxed.  He willingly fell into death, if death was coming to him. He was almost asleep against his assailant, his throat exposed, he swallowed gently and sighed.   

~

What the hell was that?!  Potter didn't fight him, wasn't fearful, he was perfectly calm and controlled, he didn't react at all.  He fell asleep, he bloody fell asleep!  Draco didn't understand, he went down to the dungeons, following Potter to places he'd never been before, fully intent on killing him. Draco's whole life had been turned upside down by Harry Potter and the bastard hadn't thought twice about it.  The bastard had killed his father, ruined his home life, shattered his self esteem and forced him to reevaluate his entire standing on the war front mere moments before things came to a head.  Harry Potter made him want to scream, he wanted to tear his hair out, he wanted to tear the insipid twit to pieces for merely existing. He always had, and now it was worse.  

Harry was no longer the first thing on everyone's thoughts, he heard a few whispers here and there, but the shining star of the wizarding world had disappeared with Voldemort.  In fact, Voldemort got more publicity than ever, people were more careful with the distribution of his name than ever. Dumbledore was dead, and You-Know-Who sent a shudder of fear through everyone, people were known to have seizures in the middle of the hallways upon thinking about him.  His mere presence in Hogwarts had soured the majesty of the Great Hall.  Tom Riddle was equally well known, equally well feared, as though uttering his name would resurrect him. And where was Harry Potter to save them from the big bad wolf?  Few people blinked anymore, Harry was a name, he wasn't a force, he wasn't _the_ force, Voldemort was, Voldemort who still struck terror in the hearts of the wizarding community, Voldemort who had fallen at the hand of a sixteen year old boy.  And poor Harry, who was less tangible, less real, less substantial than Voldemort – less alive.  

Draco felt it when Harry fell against him, he didn't feel alive anymore. His skin was as cold as his surroundings, his body frail and thin, pale in comparison to the memory.  Killing him would be a mercy, Draco had followed him to the dungeons with every intention of murdering the bastard.  He relished in the thought of ridding himself of the constant thorn in his side, alone with no witnesses.  Harry didn't deserve anything more, Draco wanted to be the only person there, the only person that witnessed Harry's passing, no martyrdom, no heroics.  Draco Malfoy would take pleasure in knowing Harry's last secret – where he was buried.  It might have been worth while, just to slit his throat with that slender little blade he kept strapped to his thigh, it might have been, but Draco was glad he didn't.  

Harry was suffering, and there was nothing a Malfoy enjoyed more than seeing a Potter suffer.  No, Draco wanted to see Potter cry before he killed him, he wanted to see the unflappable Gryffindor break.  That would be a memory worth waiting for. 


	3. Living Nightmares

**Author's Notes: **Wasn't Piers creepy though? Couldn't you just see him doing that? Rat bastard. I love that part… does that make me sick and twisted? Anyway, thank you very much Berry-Berry, RainSW6, and Sapphrine, I hope you like this next installment. 

**Disclaimers: **The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. Oh, and Sapphrine, I take no responsibility for broken hearts. ^_~

_Some Days_

~

Harry emerged. 

He was pale, and gasps greeted his arrival at lunch in the Great Hall. Hermione was there at his side, smiling at him and pulling him towards the Gryffindor table, but so too was Malfoy there, glaring heatedly at him with barely disguised hatred.  "So Potter," he said snidely, "I was convinced you'd realized how ugly you really are – why come back now Scar-face?"

Harry's hand flew to his head, grasping at his forehead with mock surprise. "Why, Malfoy! I completely forgot that was there!" He gasped, his eyes wide, "What ever would I do without you here to remind me?" He felt better than he had in days, trading quips with Malfoy, the threat to his life returned, a meal in his stomach, energy in his blood.  He started smiling, good naturedly, perhaps a tad manically, his eyes glowed with it.

Draco glared as the room around him chuckled; even Hermione was biting her lip in the attempt to stifle laughter, "Such a shame then, Potter, that I am around." His eyes flashed, "Lord knows that I'd happily kill myself to avoid another moment in your presence." 

"Not a bad idea Malfoy, tell your father I said hello." 

Draco snarled, "Potter, you and your mud-blood friends aren't fit to lick my father's boots!" 

"Like he licked Voldemort's? Bowed down to your mighty dark lord," Harry's voice dropped as he stared Draco in the face. "Like father like son."

"I am not my father Potter! If you recall, and you should you were there, I was the one who sought him out! I was the one that took him down!" He roared, defending his family honor.

"Yes Malfoy, euphemisms aside, you were the one that killed him." Harry said calmly in the face of Draco's fury, "So why do you keep blaming me."

"Because it's your fucking fault!" He jumped, launched himself at Harry, forgetting his patience, forgetting his plan in lieu of the anger he felt.  

Harry laughed softly, he didn't mean to mock, but the situation was so ludicrous he couldn't help but be amused.  Draco was attacking him in such a muggle way, trying to overpower him with his fists and pure physical strength. It didn't take much work; Harry was still a small kid, thin and wiry with no muscle to speak of.  All Draco really had to do to bowl him over was shove him, crashing into him via flying tackle was overkill, if effective.  "Malfoy," he said as Draco was drawing back to pummel him. "It was your choice."

Malfoy stopped.

"You could have killed me. You didn't, and I'm grateful for that, but it was your choice to kill your father, not mine."  Draco's eyes flared angrily, and his fist made contact with Harry's nose, instantly bloodying it.  

"No you bastard." He spat, hair flying as he heaved with exertion. "You did. You, everything about you, you always do this, you always do this." He gasped as one of Harry's bony knuckles managed to land a spot on his cheek bone, "you ruin everything!" 

They were wrenched apart very abruptly, Harry was dragged to his feet by Hermione and Seamus, Ron wasn't even looking his way.  McGonagall was between them, holding Draco at bay with the tip of her wand, Harry was still chuckling weakly.  

The defacto headmistress sighed heavily, looking for all the world like two students beating the stuffing out of each other was a common occurrence.  "Is this fighting absolutely necessary? Is it too much to ask for you two to get along?" McGonagall demanded softly, her eyes held Harry's but the typical biting tone in her voice was gone.  Minerva McGonagall had seen more than her share of responsibility; she was tired, she was ready to drop, and she wasn't ready to settle more fighting. She was sympathetic towards Harry, she didn't want anymore trouble for him either.      

The eyes of the great Hall were on him, and as uncomfortably warm as he felt here, Harry kept his cool and stood his ground. "Absolutely."

McGonagall looked alarmed at his sudden change. What happened to the boy that wilted under her gaze, fierce though he was?

"Would God and Lucifer stop fighting at the request of the universe?" Harry asked rhetorically, "Would Good and Evil simply stop arguing with each other?  Have you and Snape stopped your private barbs for Dumbledore?"  Harry stared at her solemnly, "Tell me professor, would white and black become grey because red demanded it?"  The message was there, the meaning, crystal clear.  Their differences shaped them, shaped their arguments. The rivalry was utterly, unquestionably necessary.  It was really all either one had left.  

"Mister Potter," McGonagall began stiffly, recovering from her shock, "Do you really think –." 

Harry cut her off, a first in Gryffindor history. "The short answer, Professor, is yes. Yes it is absolutely imperative that our fighting continue." He walked away.  

McGonagall didn't know what to say, so she did what she did best. "Get to class everyone! Malfoy, detention!" 

~

Arms wrapped around him, crushing his elbows into his sides and Harry jerked violently. There again, a knife in a familiar hand, pressed against his throat in the silence of the dungeons. It was dark of course; his attacker blew out the torches mere moments before Harry was trapped by this knife, by the arms that surrounded him.  They were familiar now, so was the voice, "Don't scream." 

Harry sighed and relaxed again, he felt content hear, literally balancing on the knife's edge. "I never scream." He murmured. 

The arms tightened, Harry felt his shoulders crack and the knife was suddenly replaced by a human hand, slender, cold, and powerful, but human. The hand wrenched Harry's head back violently exposing his throat, "Why is that Harry Potter?" 

Harry let it happen, his eyes fluttered closed and his muscles lost power, he slumped, boneless against the solidity behind him and sighed. "What is there to cry about?" 

The knife was back, Harry's arms were free but he didn't use them for anything more than grasping at his attackers robes, they were expensive. "Plenty Potter."  

Harry smiled, "Your father?"

Draco pressed the knife in tighter, marking Harry's neck with a tiny laceration, "He lied to me Potter.  He was never under the Imperius, he betrayed me Potter.  You made me kill him, you forced me to kill him."   

"No. It happens to everyone Malfoy. Betrayal I mean. I didn't make you kill him, I just showed you what you needed to see." 

"I'll kill you."

"I don't doubt that." 

"Why did you say those things?" Malfoy was leaning in closer now, straining to hear every word Harry was whispering.  

"Because it's true.  You can't have one without the other." Harry said sleepily, "Maybe when you kill me, you'll figure it out." 

"Calling yourself god. That's conceited." 

Harry smiled faintly, wryly; he could hear the smirk in Draco's voice.  This experience, it was familiar, contenting – the stuff of dreams. Literally. "I didn't mean me." He said softly, exerting his muscles for the first time and looking away.  "I didn't mean I was god. I don't even know if I meant us.  But I'm not god, I'm not nice, I'm not honest.  That's it, we lie, we deceive because, we're not honest, not even with ourselves.  We kill too, I'm no saint, I'm not Saint Potter.  You're the real one, he was the real one, up front. I'm the Lucifer." 

Draco suddenly realized what he was doing. The knife had become lax in his grip, he was holding Potter against him gently, his nose buried in the crook of Potter's neck, listening to him, comforting him.  His father would never stand for this, the Malfoy name would forever be tarnished. He had come here for one purpose only, revenge!  He thrust Harry away from him, throwing the too-light boy on the dusty floor. "Sod off Potter."

Harry hit the ground with a sharp thud, his bony elbows making a sharp pop when they hit the unfinished floor. He curled into himself then stretched along the dusty ground searching for Malfoy, but he had disappeared behind a corner, and Harry knew he would never catch him.   

Harry groaned, rolling onto his back and crossing his hands behind his head. He stared at the ceiling and thought about what just happened, he didn't know why he said what he said, but sometimes the most truthful moments happen when you're not watching. So he told Malfoy what was on his mind, and he wasn't uncomfortable.  That was the trick, the crux, speaking honestly with someone that didn't like him, someone that he didn't like, it made all the difference. There was no warmth, but there was no cold. It was contenting. Peaceful.  

Draco leaned against the wall, not more than five feet away from Harry, he was barely suppressing the urge to beat against it.  What had gotten into him?  Did he want to know?

From the shadows, Harry sighed heavily, alone amongst his dead again, "For what it's worth Malfoy," he whispered to the cold stone ceiling, "I'm sorry." 

~

He couldn't remember a time when he had been more hungry, putting food in his stomach last night had reminded him of exactly how good it felt to be full.  He crept to the kitchen, skulking around albeit unnecessarily. The head let him have free reign of the castle, but old habits died hard and Harry couldn't help by creep towards his destination.  He tickled the pear portrait and slipped into the kitchen, grabbing a pie and a bottle of pumpkin juice he was out again in mere moments.  

Harry skirted the statues, staying pressed against the walls as he snuck out of the castle, then moved with the shadows, flitting across the grounds into the Forbidden Forest.  It felt incredible to be outside again, in the cool November air with the refreshing scent of wood smoke drifting up from the fireplaces of Hogsmeade Harry felt like he could breathe again.  His lungs felt open and clear now, before they felt crushed, the result of sitting down too long, laying flat on his stomach where his hip bones ground into the dusty floor and he couldn't breathe properly.  Harry stretched his arms reveling in the feel of the crisp air, and made his way to the Forrest, his attempts at stealth forgotten. 

Harry's jog slowed to a leisurely stroll as he sipped at his pumpkin juice and munched on his mushroom pasty. He didn't fear the Forest anymore; there was nothing of true danger to him in it, and he felt that the midnight stroll would do him some good.  Shadows crept across the forest floor and he was glad for their company, somehow the shadow was soothing these days, a reminder of things to come.  He didn't walk to think anymore – what was there to think about? – but there was something about it, walking alone, it made him feel free.  

He finished the pasty with relish, licking it off of his fingers and disposing of the napkin he'd brought along.  Harry came to a clearing and suddenly realized that he was barefoot, the open space was colder than the air trapped between the trees, he laughed at his oversight for a moment then took another gulp of pumpkin juice.  It didn't really matter, he'd done stupider things, and perhaps the act of coming to the forest was stupid, barefoot or not, but that didn't matter either. 

A twig snapped behind him, Harry spun around solely on instinct and saw much to his displeasure not an evil creature, but a nasty one. "Heh heh, hullo Bane." He muttered, suppressing a grimace and raising a hand in greeting.  

The centaur glared balefully at him and approached menacingly. Harry suddenly felt extremely vulnerable, not only had he left his shoes, but he'd left his wand behind in the castle.  "You are no longer a boy Harry Potter." Bane growled.  Harry gulped and wondered about the fact that a horse was growling, but then Bane had him by the shoulders and the pumpkin juice clattered to the ground.  The air suddenly seemed frigid as the centaurs brown eyes glared at him with pure malice. "I have warned you many times Harry Potter, of the consequences of intruding upon our forest!" 

Harry gaped in indignation, "I wasn't –." But he was cut off before he could say more. The whole clearing was full of the centaurs, and they were each glaring at him with something less than exuberance.  He was bodily lifted by his shoulders, the grip bruised them and Harry grimaced, it wasn't the first time he'd been frightened of Bane. It was truly a miracle that Firenze had survived amongst them for so long. "Harry Potter, I have warned you and you have flouted my decree – you have become a man Harry Potter, and you will die as one." 

Harry froze, none of his other death threats felt like this, this was real, Bane had wanted to kill him when they'd met in his first year, the volatile centaur had been looking for a decent excuse ever since. Now he had one and there was nothing to stop him. 

Someone gasped in the background, a chestnut centaur with cloudy green eyes, he pointed at the sky, an awed look reflected on his open face. "Bane," he gasped, "look."  

Bane glanced at the sky and his black eyes widened in shock.  With a desperate lunge he threw Harry on the ground and backed away into his comrades.  Harry grunted upon impact and lay still, exposed tree roots grinding into his back.  Once again, though he now had no intention of touching the Gryffindor, Bane advanced on Harry.  The centaur pointed an accusatory finger, his eyes wide and frantic. In a low, emotionless voice, quite unlike his own he said, "You were brought into this world by blood Harry Potter, so too shall you leave it by blood." 

Harry scrambled away as fast as he could, his feet scraping across the tree roots as he ran through the forest, tripping over fallen branches and propelling off trees as fast as he could away from the centaurs.  He didn't know what Bane meant by that comment, quite frankly he didn't want to know, and he certainly didn't want to hear it.  Harry knew that the centaurs would kill him if they had another encounter, but… their reaction to a simple glance at the sky made no sense. Surely he wasn't that important, was it something to do with Voldemort?  

His feet felt slick and bloody as he tripped, but he didn't stop, he couldn't stop. How could he have been so stupid to have left his wand behind?  A soft clicking announced the presence of something far more dangerous than centaurs, though Hagrid might disagree.  Why had he left his wand in the castle?

The first fat drop of a fall storm spiraled from the sky to hit its target with a precision only kamikaze raindrops possess.  Harry awoke with a start as the frigid water hit him right between the eyes, his heart was pounding, was that Aragog approaching? Forcing himself to calm down, Harry took stock of his surroundings – he was propped against a tree not five feet from the forest edge.  The flagon of spilled pumpkin juice was clicking against a root, moved gently by the breeze. Harry vaguely recalled sitting down to finish his meal, but falling asleep outside in mid-November… he'd done smarter things. 

What on earth had he been thinking? Dreaming about centaurs usually implied a prophecy in the making, but what had it been about?  His life was in danger, he knew that much, but their reaction to the stars was so violent, was Voldemort back? Harry took a quick glance at the sky, it was difficult to see through the clouds, but Harry saw nothing unusual, was Aragog on a hunt? Or was he seeing the past, remembering something, or maybe his dreams were so backed up by nightmares that the prophecy came late.  Harry snorted, a dream queue, that was likely   

The rain was coming in thick and fast, pelting him through the canopy.  Something in that dream had been terrifying, but he couldn't stop to think about it as he chased the rain to dry ground.  If spending a night in the fresh air gave him dreams like that, he would rather be locked in the dungeon with the rats and the mold. 

Harry had suffered enough nightmares.


	4. Screaming in Silence

**Author's Notes: **Oooh!  I like this part, it's EVIL… does that make me sick and twisted? I mean seriously! The next chapter gets some cute little admonisions but this one… this is my version of a play ground, and yes, it does hurt this much. Anyway, thank you very much Berry-Berry, and Sapphrine, I hope you like this part, it's good fun, I like it. Tuulikki, why do you insist on pegging my fics in one? No, but really, that's a good thing, because I was hoping the meaning wasn't lost in translation (from my head to paper that is). **ANYONE THAT DOESN'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT, GO READ TUULIKKI'S SECOND REVIEW!** Ah, I feel better. ^_~ Anyway, apparently since people don't R&R on Thanksgiving, I'll just beg – please(s) and thank you(s) for reviewing for me (PLEEEEEEZE!).  

**Disclaimers: **The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. *snickers* (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. Oh, and Sapphrine, I take no responsibility for broken hearts. ^_~

_Some Days_

Midnight came and went again. Harry was kept awake by the echoes of distant waterfalls, resounding through the dungeons.  The lake overflowed and drops of water came seeping through the soil to crash against the stone floor of Hogwarts with great wet thuds. Everything was wet, haunting, the senseless drip gave Harry's dead their own voices. Possessing the water, hissing and popping complaints. 

He would not go upstairs where it was warm and dry, no matter how much he wanted to. Warm and dry didn't exist in the rain, it was living a lie that only children know to fear when the thunder breaks. Harry would rather be a frightened but honest child than an adult living in false security.  Last night's nightmare had shaken him badly. The moment he was regaining his feet they were wrenched from under him.  Harry had never been proficient in his divination courses, but he felt that something would happen, and he learned to trust those feelings. 

The rain concealed his footsteps, he moved most freely in the shadows and nasty weather.  He was born in this weather, lived in this weather, learning to skirt the shadows and move with the thunderclaps. He had survived his father in the Malfoy dungeons, and survived the Death Eater insurrection on a night like this.  The violence of these moments was ingrained in him, the brutality of lightening gave him courage.  Storms made him feel at home in all the wrong ways, but they were the only ways he knew. 

Harry was jumpy tonight, starting at shadows and wary of dripping water, he was amused by this.  The Gryffindor hero had nothing to fear down here, nothing but him.  He knew these tunnels like he knew his hands and he suspected that Harry did as well, but the game of cat and mouse had to end. Draco had lost sight of who was the cat.   Every time he made a move against Harry he wound up running away.  The boy kept relaxing against him like a pet, Draco had always been fond of his pets but today his losing streak would end. The perpetual thorn in his side, the young man that had caused his father's death, the man that destroyed his family name and his financial well being.  Affectionate or not, Harry would die. 

His dead were moaning.  It might have been the wind, leaking through the stones, the noise reverberating across the vast and empty chambers, it whipped through the tunnels and sang out a haunting dirge.  His dead were moaning and crying, their tears splattering, echoing as the cold seeped into his skin.  This was real winter, this was the onset of the dire months, this was the reality that fate had subjected him to, and Harry didn't want to leave it. Cocoa be damned, the last time he had ventured from this honest imprisonment, he'd been terrified, caught up in a web of dreams and deceit.  

Harry shuddered at the memory and trudged on, unable to sleep, unable to relax, even in the catacombs where he belonged. His heavy foot falls drowned out any sound, he didn't want to listen to the dead surrounding him, the voices and memories in his head were enough. 

Harry closed his eyes and pulled his not-so-fresh robes around him, eventually he would get out of this rut. He would start something, become something akin to human once more. Harry knew without a doubt that he would never be the same, he valued honesty and integrity above all things and they had betrayed him, but it was so cold, and so lonely.  It wouldn't be a denial of his morals to accept the warmth of others; it wouldn't be turning his back on his knowledge of the world to be happy, it would merely be acting out of necessity, turning a blind eye to a few white lies – it would be human.  He stumbled over a loose slab of marble from an exhumed grave. Unable to catch his balance, Harry floundered in his large robes.  The Gryffindor held his arms before him to break his fall but something abruptly reversed his momentum.  A small "oomph" forced its way out of Harry as he hit a familiar solidity behind him and his head was wrenched backwards viciously. He had to balance on his toes to keep his neck from breaking as his welcomed assailant twisted it to the side – no knives in this encounter.  

The hand around his neck tightened and Harry squeaked in pain, he wasn't choking or suffocating, but the strain on his neck was causing him grave discomfort, it wasn't meant to bend that way, any moment it would break. He could feel it… "Draco…!"

The thumb under his jaw pushed harder into the soft flesh – Harry was amazed to note that he could feel his tonsils shifting with it. "M-Malfoy stop! Please!" 

Draco didn't listen, he couldn't hear Harry through his desperation.  The blood pounded in his ears, blurred his vision and heated his skin unbearably – Harry was a searing presence in his mind, if Draco didn't kill him now, he never would.  The hand that had been pinning Harry's arms moved to cover his moth, succeeding in further displacing Harry's head.  Harry whimpered, eyes wide and rolling above the cover of Draco's bruising hand. 

Draco could feel, he could feel Harry blindly grasping at his robes, seeking a vulnerability. He could feel the hot breath on his hand as his victim gasped for air, struggling to sustain himself by breathing through his nostrils. He could feel Harry's warm skin under his hands and his frantic pulse beating a tattoo against his palm.  He wasn't prepared.  He couldn't have imagined how intimate the act of snapping someone's neck could be. Harry was quivering in fear and pain, it couldn't hurt that much could it?  The would-be murderer gave Harry's head, something so small and fragile in his grasp, an experimental little shove.  

Harry bit back a scream that came out as a muffled whimper. His eyes shut tightly against the pain in a form of acceptance, but a single tear managed to escape the confines of his thick eyelashes, down his cheek, to land with a wet thwap on Draco's hand.  The Slytherin wrenched his hands away as though Harry's tears had burnt him to the core, without thinking about his actions he completely released his murder victim save a gentle hold on Harry's elbow. Things weren't supposed to be like this. Harry was supposed to fight him, they were supposed to have their wands drawn, trading insults and curses as they fought on fair ground and Draco finally, after all the years, emerged victorious.   

But no matter what, no matter how broken apart Harry became, Draco had never, in real life or his frequent day dreams, seen him cry. It occurred to him then that he never wanted to see that, in his entire career as antagonist extraordinaire he never wanted to see Harry cry like this. On his knees perhaps, bowed down to Draco's superiority, screaming and wailing, pitifully broken, but never crying for the pain. Never tears.  

Harry was currently slumped against him, breathing heavily and trying his damnedest not to move his sore neck. His bones ached, his flesh stung where Draco's abrasive touch had marred it, his muscles were twitching in recovery from the strain, he couldn't hold himself up anymore. "Potter." Draco murmured against him, almost tenderly brushing the line of bruises on Harry's neck.  

Harry unexpectedly turned towards Draco, burying his face in Draco's robes to hide the tears, Voldemort had held him like that, crushing his wind-pipe, trying to snap his neck.  It was the nightmare, it was the danger in the forest all over again – the centaurs had known he was cursed, they had known he would die.  "Why did you do that?" He sobbed into Draco's robes, not for comfort but concealment. His head hurt, more than it ever had in the past, a dull ache that threatened to overwhelm him.  If headaches had a taste, this one would be bitter, like a hangover, like dehydration.  

Instinctively Draco wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, gently cradling him. Unlike the embraces of the past, there was no malicious intent.  "I'm going to kill you."

Harry glared straight up at him, green eyes full to the brim with tears, "So kill me all ready!  Why did you have to do _that_?" 

There was an oddly shaped scar on Harry's neck, it was faint, it would be impossible to recognize unless someone was touching the spot, which Draco was. He knew what it was immediately after he felt it; one of Voldemort's many extravagant rings had left its mark on Harry during the last battle.  With his hands resting gracefully on Harry's shoulders, Draco suddenly felt guilty for trying to terrify the boy. He had succeeded in doing that now; it would be merciful to kill him now when he was at peace, or some semblance of it.  The Gryffindor was pathetic, he really was. Leaning against his only enemy, clutching Draco as if he were a life-line.  What did Harry want out of this, how could he possibly benefit?  Did he really want to die as his words had implied or was he simply calling Malfoy's bluff?  

Well Draco had news for him! It was no bluff, he would kill Harry, to recover his sanity, to restore the family name to its proper place of respect, to avenge his father.  He wouldn't do it tonight, this type of breakdown was not what he was looking for, he wanted Harry defeated, not helpless.   Ever so gently, though Harry's muscles screamed in protest and he whimpered, Draco forced Harry back and raised his chin so they were both standing on their own steam, looking each other in the eye. "I'm sorry." He said, remarkably genuine, "and I will kill you."  

The Slytherin threw Harry to the ground, ignoring his pained grunt and swept down a corridor without a second glance. 

~

The air was fresh and clean, it was crisp, clear and refreshing. Harry had come out to the pitch for a flight, to clear his mind and hopefully his stomach shortly after midnight.  Harry had once again been caught by Snape in a corridor, and once again the potions master force fed him a complete meal.  The professor had been hunting him down once a week to make sure he ate, Harry always came away feeling too full. It wasn't his fault he didn't eat much, he just hadn't been motivated to consume food, then his stomach shrank drastically and he couldn't stomach anything! His anorexia wasn't deliberate, nor was it spurned by self hatred (Harry admitted it, he was too damned skinny) but Snape saw it as a problem, a problem that he wasn't allowing to develop into bulimia. Snape had even forced chocolate on Harry, despite the boy's adamant dislike of sweets.  So Harry had come to the pitch to work off some of the heaviness that had settled like lead in his stomach.  He had vowed not to come outside again after the nightmare about Bane, but the call of fresh air and freedom was overpowering.  Draco's assault had hurt terribly, his neck was still sore, even Snape had stared at the bruises – but by comparison to Voldemort, Aragog who would have stuffed him like a turkey then  eaten him alive, to Bane who would have eagerly torn him apart, Draco was a fluffy bunny. The nightmare had been terrible, but the future events it represented had been anticlimactic, albeit painful.  

It was possible that he was finally recovering, his need to be alone in a desolate place lessened by time, or more likely, he just loved to fly.  He had loved the very idea since he was a small child, dreaming of flying motorcycles and longing for his own wings before he even knew who Voldemort was.  Flight had never lied to him, the games attached to it perhaps, the people involved most definitely, but when he was alone, in the air… he could do anything, be anything. The air was soothing, without the human interaction involved in Quidditch, it was extremely relaxing. Maybe one day he would invent a spell that allowed wizards to sleep on their brooms without falling off of them.  

Earlier in his school career, Harry had snitched a snitch from the Quidditch lock-box, it had amused him at the time, and now he had something to practice with.  The additional human interaction wasn't appreciated at the moment, but Harry still loved Quidditch, and he hadn't played in too long.  He released the snitch in the bright moonlight and allowed it five minutes to disappear while he did a few familiar flips and barrel rolls, then he began scanning the sky. The darkness made it more difficult to spot the golf-ball-sized object but he eventually set eyes on it, near the ground, hovering around the third goal post on the Slytherin– urk, opposing – side.   Harry dove for it, but the snitch, as though sensing his intent, shot up and right out of Harry's grasp. The game of cat and mouse continued for some time, Harry right behind the speeding little orb, intensely focused on it.  

He was moving out of the pitch, the snitch racing across the grounds towards the forest, Harry dutifully followed it. The seeker would be very upset if one of his most prized possessions was lost because he was afraid of the forest. He continued his hot pursuit, he almost had it… almost, just a little further…

Harry had to bank sharply left as he swerved to avoid the person hovering in mid air. This person caught the snitch with the ease of a seeker and even in the weak moonlight Harry could put two and two together.  "Dad!" he gasped. 

James Potter released the snitch and Harry saw much to his fascination, that the letters L.E. were engraved upon it. "Mom?" 

"I… I thought you were dead!" Harry exclaimed, they were alive, or was this a dream of some sort? 

"I'm sorry Harry," his father tried consolingly, "It couldn't be helped."

"You're dead." Harry muttered frantically to himself, "you're dead, I'm having a nightmare, and pretty soon the pink and green hippopotamuses are going to come parading down the lane." 

James winced, "Harry. It's no dream.  I'm sorry we had to do this, but please understand that Dumbledore thought it was necessary.  What Voldemort killed, well, he didn't kill anything – it was simulacrum. The headmaster didn't want us in danger but you… you were the one in the prophecy; you were the one that was meant to bring him down. We couldn't interfere."

Harry stared blankly at his father, or this mockery of his father, this was impossible, inconceivable. It wasn't even a good lie, it was pathetic. But somehow, Harry wanted to believe it, he wanted to know that his father was well and truly alive.  However, alive or not, Harry was furious. "Okay, assuming this melodrama, and a bad one at that, is true, who the hell would sacrifice their son to save their own lives?"  

"Harry you don't understand!" He cried, "Please, you were the boy in the prophecy, and you were meant to kill him.  I didn't want you to suffer, you killed him and you still had your childhood ahead of you.  I had every confidence that you would defeat him and look Harry, you did!" 

"At what cost!?" Harry roared, this was ridiculous! Absolutely ludicrous! "You're proposing that you and mum replaced yourselves with simulacrum and left me to die in Godric's Hollow simply because you had an inkling that I would survive an attack on Voldemort? Jesus there were so many flaws with that plan I can't even begin to list them all.  What if Voldemort hadn't shown up before the spell wore off and I had been left in an empty house, or he had never shown up at all and I starved to death! I was only one year old, how on earth could you have been so stupid?!"  

"Harry – " 

"Then you leave me with mum's stupid sister instead of taking me back in?!  What in gods name were you thinking? This lie is pitiable!"   

"Harry. I know you're upset, I know you don't believe me, but… just play with me.  Seekers challenge, you'll see, your mother will keep score." His father pointed at the ground where his mother sat and they proceeded to play one on one as the thunderheads rolled in.  If this were just a dream, Harry should have no reason to fear, and if this were some desperate delusion, he might as well enjoy it while it was there, furious as he was.

 A lightning bolt shot across the sky and James' features darkened. He flew to protect his son, and Harry saw how magnificent he really was, proud and daring, but he knew what would happen next.   There was a clap of thunder, followed shortly by another flash of lightning, but this one was green. James Potter slumped over his broom then plummeted off of it, his robes fluttering futilely. Mocking him.  Lily screamed, his mother screamed pleading for his life, her life. Harry had heard this so many times it was an ingrained part of his psyche.  Another flash and she too was dead.  

Finally the originator of the flashes came into view beyond the snitch and the still-hovering broom of his newly dead father, he was tall, lean, and terrifying as he had ever been. Tom Riddle was not the snake-like Volemort that Harry had killed, he appeared more human, though acted less so. 

"And so you see little Potter," Voldemort spoke patronizingly and Harry growled, "you've just killed your parents."  

Harry's mouth fell open. "You mean my father was telling the truth?" It may have seemed strange to be asking Voldemort to verify the statement, but Harry knew without a doubt that Voldemort had never lied to him.

"Oh quite." He said with no small amount of amusement, "you could verify the fact by inspecting their bodies, but I doubt you'll have time.  You see Harry Potter, I'm going to kill you right now.  Though I daresay you'll have plenty of time to apologize to your parents in hell."  

Harry reached for his wand and realized that he didn't have it with him.  Tom Riddle smirked broadly and twirled something between his graceful fingers, something that looked suspiciously like Harry's wand.  Harry gulped audibly as Voldemort pointed it at him, the Gryffindor knew he was in a grave amount of trouble – he was about to die. 

"_Avada__"_

Harry closed his eyes and felt his fingers going numb, would he stand a better chance of survival if he just leapt off his broom? 

_"Kedavra."___

Harry fell, he could feel himself falling, could hear the wind catching his robes as they flapped, he almost felt the sick impact of the ground.  Perhaps he was unconscious, or dead, but somewhere in the distance of his mind, he felt Voldemort's laughter. Was this death, was he passing into the next world as Dumbledore had always called it?  Everything was becoming blurry, though how the black of his eyelids could be blurry was beyond him.  

"Potter." Voldemort?

"Potter get up!" No, not possible, Voldemort would never doubt his own curses.  He knew Harry was dead.  

Harry groaned and his eyes fluttered, "Potter! I did not feed you so you could fall asleep in my arm chair.  Now get up. If you're that tired, get back to your dorm." 

Harry sat up, scratched his head, cleaned his glasses and looked sheepishly at Snape. "I'm convinced you put an anesthetic in the mash." Snape raised an eyebrow.  Harry sighed and got to his feet, "Thank you professor." 

~

Hermione's brand new boots had scuffed toes; she noticed this as she shuffled through the labyrinth of dungeons staring at her feet in search of her friend. Ron was still upset with him, and as much as she loved the red-head, he was naive, always expecting things to be wonderful and happy like they were before Voldemort.  Hermione knew that it wouldn't be easy for Harry, but she needed to talk to him.

Everyone in the Great Hall had looked on in horror as Harry and Voldemort were swathed in a vicious looking black cloud.  The combatants both those supportive of Harry, and others fighting for Voldemort stopped fighting the instant it arose. Many people tried rushing into the obstruction, but met a solid, crystalline wall.  No one would get through that barrier until one of the people inside escaped it.  When Harry had been the one to emerge, the fighting resumed, Death Eaters struggling for their Master's memory and the inhabitants of the school fighting to defend themselves and Harry Potter, who was sitting limp as a rag doll in the middle of it all. 

Hermione had not been able to see Harry for days, Madame Pomfrey insisted that he be kept in solitary confinement until she could be sure of his health, but every once in a long while, she would let in visitors.  When Hermione was finally able to see her friend, his face had been so tragic, so unlike the Harry she knew that she could hardly bear to look.  He had seemed so solid merely days before the attack, but now he appeared broken and hollow of anything but despair. He looked utterly betrayed, and Hermione didn't have a spell in her renowned repertoire that could fix him. 

Harry's physical recovery had not been an easy one; he emerged from the dark crystalline shield bloody and stunned, and he still bore the scars of the conflict. No one had realized it at the time, but Harry Potter had very nearly lost his arm. As Harry relayed the story of Voldemort's hands quite literally pulled his joints apart he remained completely emotionless, Hermione had shivered thinking about it, his skin ripping apart under Voldemort's fingernails, his muscles tearing with the strain of maintaining his grip on Voldemort's neck… it was a brutal tale.  He had been unwilling to talk about it since, distant and cold, shuddering away from their affection.  

Hermione didn't understand, she had done her best to research Harry's affliction, but she had never wanted to be completely isolated from the world.  Now she was determined to talk to him as she explored the basement of Hogwarts – it was truly amazing and merited more exploration, but she didn't have the time. 

The determined Head Girl quickened her step as she passed one of the potions rooms for the third time.  She didn't want Snape to think she was loitering, and she _certainly _didn't want Snape to know what she was actually doing.  Pressed close to the wall, walking fast with her head down, she didn't notice when another pair of feet were headed her way. She did, however, notice when she ran into the owner of those feet. 

"Watch where you're going Granger."  Drawled Malfoy as Hermione sprawled at his feet.  Draco watched her coldly as she gathered her books and brushed her wild hair away from her face.  "Aren't you going to apologize?"

Finally, climbing to her feet, she nodded to him. "Excuse me." It passed as both an apology and a curt dismissal as Hermione walked away with the same brisk pace. 

"Granger." Malfoy's voice stopped her in her tracks, "He doesn't want to see you." With that he walked away like nothing happened.

"Barmy git."  Sometimes it felt good to quote Ron. 

~

How dare she? How could she come waltzing down here to patronize him. "Oh Harry, we all miss you. Ron is still upset, but I'm sure you could patch things up. Oh Harry, I know it was terrible but you have to move on. Oh Harry…."  Harry Potter had never been more sickened in his life. If he heard another "Oh Harry" he might scream.  Her self-importance had only served to infuriate him, "but I'm your friend, I'll understand, just tell me…" She could never understand because Harry himself didn't understand.  He loathed the sympathetic prods and despised the shocked look she'd thrown him as she stared pointedly at his jutting collar bones and sunken cheeks.  Yes, he knew he was too thin thank-you-very-much, there was no point in belaboring it.   

With a large thunk Harry realized he hit one of the stone walls of the tunnels.  Great, now his fist hurt, it was probably bruised.  He couldn't be grateful to her, somehow it was beyond him to try, he didn't want to think about how she was trying to help him, and how he had shot her down.  It was irritating, it made his head throb, life frustrated him because they couldn't see that he wanted to be left alone. Hermione represented the world, he decided, and Harry hated it.  He had stopped attending classes altogether. Surely if McGonagall found him wandering down here she would just throw him out, if she could, if she dared, if she thought he had anywhere else to go.  The rest of the world was so ruthlessly pleasant and there was a perpetual ache in the back of his skull, something that absolutely refused to go away.  Maybe Draco had pinched a nerve when he'd almost broken his neck, because that hurt too – every time he moved his sore head, his neck screamed right along with it. 

Harry abruptly stopped walking, and realized he had been pacing, subconsciously trying to rid himself of the angry energy in his system.  The dust settled around his feet and Harry took a slow and deliberate breath.  With equally measured strides he walked into the shadows, putting out torches as he passed, and let his feet guide him wherever they wanted to go.  It was so much easier to walk without a destination, making the journey was simple; going back was a pain in the ass. So Harry just decided to erase the destination, he would sleep where he slept down here, if his dorm mates could stand to be without him for a week, they could stand to be without him for two.  

As Harry passed, a scowl engraved on his face, someone stepped into the hallway and followed his steps.  The Gryffindor's boots landed on the stone floor in a perfect rhythm, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, measured and loud as they struck.  It was perfect and extremely easy to trace him.  Walking slightly faster, in perfect silence, his feet barely stirring the dust motes, it was simple to catch him. No one ever took this route – not even the golden boy – that much was obvious.  The hallway was thick with spider webs, and about 200 feet from the main hall, the route turned primitive, its arches no longer supported by stone.  The ceiling gradually grew lower until it hovered just above his head.  This would be perfect for his plan.  

Harry spun on his heels as a force grabbed his wrist and pulled him in close.  This was familiar of course, the fourth time it had happened in a fortnight, Harry rolled his eyes. No matter how many times Malfoy tried to surprise him, it just wouldn't work.  "Go away Malfoy, I'm not in the mood." 

The person behind him said nothing, but Harry felt the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.  Malfoy was dressed unusually, his robes weren't of their typical quality and there was a hard spot just below Harry's head, he suspected it was dragon's hide. 

The knife pressed in tighter to Harry's neck, drawing a thin line of blood.  The Gryffindor was uncomfortable and was sorely tempted to squirm away, though he knew without a doubt that if he did that self-same knife would probably slit his throat.  "Seriously though Malfoy, I'm not in the mood, and you never kill me anyway… so… can you come back tomorrow?"

The person behind him grunted and shoved his thumb into one of Harry's pressure points. Harry stiffened and took a deep breath, he smelled Firewhiskey and horse leather, a firm smell, and an unfamiliar one. With a start, Harry realized that the person behind him was serious, emboldened by alcohol and the anonymity of this corridor, Malfoy was willing to kill him.  Harry tried to get away, his arms were pinned behind his back, but Harry struggled with them anyway.  His assailant was surprised by his sudden activity, so Harry used that shock to his advantage and managed to get one arm free just as the knife came down.  The cold steel sliced into his free shoulder with a wet 'shwick' and Harry gritted his teeth thanking the powers that be that it wasn't his neck.  He continued to squirm, feeling his shoulder crack as he tried to free his other arm, but his efforts were in vain. The knife came down again, ripping into his back, Harry screamed. Finally his other arm was free, but it was of little use because he was falling backward.  His assailant ripped the knife from his back with a vicious yank and strode away, leaving Harry to bleed to death on the dirt floor.

Fighting back a scream of pain, Harry used what little energy he had in him to roll onto his stomach and see the thick shoulders of his attacker disappearing into the gloom.  As his eyes fluttered closed, Harry realized that his murderer had been darker than Malfoy, taller, more muscular, he didn't even smell the same. Perhaps if he had taken better care of himself this wouldn't have happened, but he hadn't, and it had.  So Harry Potter slipped into unconsciousness with a bitter groan, wondering where the hell Malfoy was. 

~


	5. The Beginning of Normalcy

**Author's Notes: **This part is sort of… god forbid it sweet… does that make me sick and twisted? Yes, yes I believe it does. I mean seriously! This is the chapter that gets some cute little admonitions. Sad. And yes, yes it does hurt. Anyway, **Tuulikki**, Malfoy is on the other side of the castle, it doesn't hurt to tell you that. The real question of course, is what will he do now that Harry's down for the count? After all, Draco wants him dead right? *evil maniacal laughter*** Meia**… aw, thanks. Sorry to keep you in suspense, but this part may well kill you. And finally, **Incognito4** I'm glad you liked the water, that was one of my more disturbing nightmares (I have some doozies, not to mention the fact that I pretty much live in my basement, and my water heater is always doing something) and I'm glad it translated well to paper.  Hoping that you'll like this chapter to everyone! Ah, I feel better. ^_~ Anyway, apparently since people don't R&R things with uber cryptic summaries (hey, I was happy about that summary!), I'll just beg – please(s) and thank you(s) for reviewing for me (PLEEEEEEZE!).   Oh, one last thing if anything is spelled wrong, I'm sorry. I use Microsoft Word, and it highlights all the misspellings, but that means that most of the names are highlighted, and I've just gotten sick of looking for little red squiggles. 

**Disclaimers: **The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. Oh, and 

_Some Days_

Draco Malfoy didn't exactly know why he told Granger about Harry.  In fact, he shouldn't have said a word; he was anything but Harry's bouncer, but something told him that Harry would be displeased to see his friend. So he'd tried to warn Granger off in not so many words, not for a reason of course, perhaps to keep Harry isolated.  Yes, that was it, keeping Harry isolated would make him easier to control, if no one knew where Harry was, then no one could find his body when Draco finally killed the sap. 

It was still the highest thing on his agenda, he still intended to kill the boy, he'd just been delayed by circumstance.  It was just past midnight, he had napped for a few hours in warm, comfortable bed, then rose again to kill Harry at last.  He was prepared this time; he had steeled his heart and wore his family dagger, something his father had given to him on his thirteenth birthday.  He would avenge his family name Harry Potter would die at long last. 

Slipping from his bed, past the lumbering giants he used as body guards, he left his room and crept from the dorm without being seen.  He knew the route extremely well now, past the statue of Latham Covinus the divided, across the South Corridor, and down the flight of shifting stairs (remembering to hop the disappearing one), and past Snape's office.  That was the most dangerous part of the way to Harry, getting past Snape, even when the man was asleep was almost impossible, the man had more than six senses when it came to students out of bed, but he was lenient for Draco.  Navigating the dungeons was easier said than done, half of the tunnels led to empty chambers in the bowels of Hogwarts, great, expansive things with vaulted arches and echoing walls, but the other half led to dead-ends, half finished projects and holes full of spider webs. 

Finding Harry always took a few locator spells, but the Gryffindor had a pattern, perhaps someone that hadn't spent years watching Harry Potter wouldn't recognize it, but Harry always turned left twice, then right.  It was a strange little idiosyncrasy, but it always held true, left, left, right, left, left, right – he was so predictable, conveniently so.  So he traced Harry from where he knew him to be last, then followed his steps on the dusty ground, through a score of tunnels and into an empty chamber.  The clearly marked steps became blurry, and there were no torches lit, so Draco drew his wand and muttered a simple "lumos," the Slytherin was amused to see that Harry had been pacing, but he was not amused to see that he had been followed.   

Draco quickened his pace, it could have been Hermione who'd followed him into the dark, but she wouldn't have gone with unlit torches, no one friendly would have.  Harry liked the dark, he liked feeling like he was alone, but no one else would – and for no reason he could explain, Draco didn't like where his thoughts were leading him.  The cobwebs grew thicker and the dust irritated Draco's eyes, he was highly allergic to dust and he deplored this trek, fortunately, this would be the last time he made it.  The thick, white, cottony shield was broken in places; a sign of Harry's passing, so Draco followed the trail.  

There was something in the air, something familiar and ominous; it was something he couldn't place.  The heaviness was suffocating, the dust having not yet settled, he must be close to Harry now.  He could almost smell it, feel it on the air, the thick scent of humanity in the tunnel, it hung on the dust, and it hung heavily in his nostrils.  Harry was there in the darkness, but the light of his wand was not enough to find him, it wasn't enough to see things clearly, he was feeling his way down the path Harry had taken, crouching to see his foot steps, but now Draco needed more light.

He made a right turn into pitch blackness and came to a dead end. The smell was even thicker here, and his booted foot slid into earth that was less than solid. Had the lake seeped into this tunnel?  Draco made the spell stronger, he lit the entire tunnel but did not see Harry slumped against one of its sloped walls, nor was he standing with his back turned.  Cold with terror, Draco looked down and everything slid in and out of place.  

The scent, blood, thick blood, the wetness beneath his feet was the blood turning the earth to mud beneath him, the knowledge that Harry was somewhere near by, and the scent of humanity; it all made sense now.  Yet everything was violently misplaced, like a painting that's color had broken and shifted – there wasn't a congruent picture here, there were things he recognized like Harry, blood, dirt, spider webs, injury, all things he had seen countless times before, but none of it seemed to go together.  He had experienced and expected men, bloody at his feet, but Harry Potter had never been in those dark dreams.  Seeing him here, his blood still languidly pumping from a gaping wound in his back made Draco want to scream.  His heart was pounding in his ears, his hands were shaking, Harry was dying if not already dead.  How did this happen? 

"Oh god." The blonde dropped to his knees, surveying the wound with both hands and eyes, clutching at Harry's back to keep what little blood remained still in his body.  Draco didn't stop to think about what he was doing as he bodily lifted Harry from where he was sprawled on the floor. "You are not going to die…" he grunted out under the weight, "until I kill you."  He knew that he had to get Harry to the infirmary immediately, he had to move him before the boy died, but it would take time, possibly too much time. Draco could feel the blood seeping through his cloak as he ran through the tunnels, retracing his own steps and praying that his haste would not see him lost.  

"Madame Pomfrey!" Draco roared as soon has he had reached the dungeon classrooms, "Professor Snape!"  He ran now, towards the infirmary, bellowing for surviving teachers as he went. Harry was light, but nearly too much for him to bear as a dead weight, possibly because he _was_ a dead weight.  "Professor Snape! SEVERUS!" 

Harry slipped from Draco's shoulder, and the blonde didn't have the energy to hoist him up there again, so he dragged Harry across the Great Hall and towards the infirmary. Not for the first time did Draco want to kill whoever had designed this castle, who on earth would put an infirmary on the third floor?  "Oh, come on!" He began desperately, frantically trying to get help, "Come on! Isn't anyone going to help? This is Harry bloody Potter and you're just going to let him die?!"  Never mind that Draco himself wanted nothing more than to kill Harry, never mind that it was one o'clock in the morning and everyone was tucked into their beds – Draco was panicking. 

Draco Malfoy was on the brink of tears by the time someone finally took Harry from him.  Professor Snape emerged on the scene, cast a calming spell on Draco and did what he could for Harry by stopping the blood flow and scanning for internal injury – fortunately there was none.  Snape had never been proficient with healing spells, not many people were, but he survived, and so too should Harry.   

"Mister Malfoy." Snape said coldly.  Draco looked up at him from Harry's body; there was a streak of blood on his cheek, from where he carelessly brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. Harry's blood, which begged the question, "What the hell happened?"

~

Harry survived, as he had an uncanny ability to do so. And Draco attracted trouble simply because he was good at it.  For saving Harry's life he got praise, house points, and a nice shiny medal that stayed in the trophy room – for being out of bed well passed curfew, he got a detention polishing that very medal, and the rest of them in the trophy room.  In his mind, it wasn't a bad trade until he stopped to think about it.  He wanted Harry dead right? So why did he save the bastard that killed his father, that sullied his name? Why on earth did he go chasing after Harry? Why did he go to the effort to drag him to safety? Why did he soak himself in Harry's blood, why did he bother? Shouldn't he have sat back, watch coldly as Harry died? 

The Malfoy in him made him hate himself for what he had done, truly it didn't matter how Harry died, just so long as he did, but there was something about his pitiful state, something that implored Draco to help the fallen hero.  He convinced himself that he only wanted to watch Harry die if he could die by Draco's hand.  He convinced himself that he wanted to be the one to slit Harry's throat, to see him beg as he must have begged for the mystery attacker, as he must have begged for Voldemort.  Then and only then would Harry be granted the honor of dying at Draco's hand.  

That moment, it would be tonight, it would be soon.  He had his knife in hand, he was striding towards the dungeons, he was skirting the shadows and he was full of self righteous anger – the kind of anger that had driven hundreds of people before him to kill.  Just as they used it, he would use it, and he would at long last kill Harry Potter.  

Harry was standing against a wall with his head down, breathing heavily.  He was think, he was tired and haggard looking, he had the haunted look, the sloping shoulders of someone that had nothing left in the world.  He looked miserable, and Draco stopped for a moment to soak in the sight.  Draco smiled to himself as he steadily approached Harry, not like the moments when he had hesitated before wrapping his arms around the Gryffindor.  

Today he merely strode towards him, feet scraping across the dirt ground, he wrapped one hand around Harry's mouth, the other one, the hand holding the knife, he pressed at Harry's throat.  Harry stiffened against him, shook with terror. Quietly, curtly as if in greeting, he said, "Potter." Then applied force, slid the knife across Harry's throat, felt it pierce the skin and a wall of muscle with a wet slurp, and stepped back to let Harry fall.  

Draco smiled for a moment, he smiled as he saw Harry's eyes widen in shock, and the blood gushed from the neck wound.  Steadily, it flowed into the ground, first darkening it, then making it shine in the soft torch light.  Harry struggled with death, thrashed in its throes, and the blood flowed deeper, redder, more.  Slowly Draco's smile faded. The blood wouldn't stop pumping out of Harry's neck, long after his vibrant eyes had glazed over and his body had stilled. The blood kept on coming long after Harry turned pale, then blue with death, it lapped at Draco's ankles, threatened to bowl him over with a tidal force.  

It was staining him, drowning him, burning him like battery acid, he could feel it! The blood, the blood, pouring out, sinking into the ground, washing up around his calves, marking him, making him something other than he was.  Harry was gone.  He was being covered by his own blood, the stench of it ran thick in the air, he was awash with his own blood, unable to save Draco from the can of worms he had opened. For the first time Draco realized that he was alone, never again to play the antagonist because the act of taking Harry's life was successfully drowning him.  

Draco Malfoy stood still, it was a thing he was remarkably good at, a thing he had learned.  He stood still as Harry died, stood still as the blood rose to his chin, stood still as it flooded his mouth with it's coppery tang.  He stood still.  He didn't know what he'd done, he didn't know how he'd brought himself to do it, or even why.  His father was dead, his family name was worth nothing – that was true, but it was worth nothing from the very beginning of his life, a series of letters that meant nothing.  His father… his father was dead, and Draco suddenly realized that it didn't matter, because people die, fathers die before their sons, and those sons die before theirs.  Nothing made sense anymore, his reasons didn't hold water, but Harry was dead.  The cold knowledge, the calculating certainty was in him, Harry was dead – what was left but the blood?

Draco awoke with a start.  Sweat was pouring down his back, and his chest was heaving.  Beside him his dorm mates were snoring peacefully, oblivious to Draco's nightmare.  Draco glanced at his bed-side clock and noted – not without displeasure – that it was three o'clock in the morning, and he would not get anymore sleep tonight.  It had been a long time since Draco had had such vivid a nightmare and he hoped it would be a long time since he had another one, but he had the next three hours of the night to think about what had been in it.  

~

Harry stumbled but caught himself on a wall. His shoulders still hurt like mad, and his back itched like the devil but he couldn't reach to scratch the spot, but his heart was in the worst condition.  Hermione had been in to see him, as had Ron.  They didn't speak much, they didn't need to, the truths they wished to express were evident.  Ron was angry for Harry's neglect; Hermione was upset because if Harry had simply taken her advice he wouldn't be in this mess, Harry… well, Harry was just sick of hearing it.  He knew that hiding from life wasn't the answer, that keeping himself in the dungeons was no way to live, but outside those icy stone walls, was a world that he wasn't ready to deal with. A world that wasn't ready to deal with him. 

The dungeons were safe, as he knew the term.  He had been attacked down there, but it hadn't been with words or gestures, placating phrases that were supposed to make everything perfect again.  It had been with a knife.  It was brutal, it was bloody, but it was a simple, honest little thing.  There were so many reasons for him not to go back there, he had loving friends that were willing to stay with him, no matter what he did, he had good hearted people that cared for him around every corner, but he also had a porcelain mask that awaited him, a mask with a smile and a twinkle in it's eye.

If he went back to the tunnels, to the basement, he felt like he had a chance at self preservation. If not the rescue of his body and his friendships, then the rescue of his sanity and integrity. He would emerge eventually, once he was prepared, but he wasn't prepared, he didn't have the strength to face the world.  At the Dursleys, he had anonymity, he was invisible to the press, to the eager faces of his eager friends, it was like that in the dungeons. Harry wanted that now, craved it, needed it.  

When he woke up a week after he'd been nearly killed, he inquired after Malfoy. There was no particular reason for this, possibly because it was Malfoy he was thinking about when he lost consciousness, but he heard it from Ron and Hermione that Draco was given the third degree because of it. "Did you, Mister Malfoy, try to kill Harry Potter" under veritaserum.  Harry could just see it now.  "Well, yes… and no!  I have tried to kill him… I think… but I didn't attack him the other night. Really!"  Or had he simply said "no"? It might have been easier on him to have said no, but Draco Malfoy never took the easy route.

McGonagall hadn't been much easier on him, she had asked him point blank exactly what had happened, and Harry told her.  She asked about the shoulder injury, he explained that his attacker missed because he struggled, she asked about his back, Harry told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Then McGonagall asked about his neck, how had he gotten those bruises, they looked old, had they happened earlier, who had attacked him?  Harry told her that too, he had quite frankly said, "He was going to slit my throat, and when I got away, my neck got bruised I guess."  There was no explanation for why he had protected Draco Malfoy, the boy had never done anything for him, but he didn't want Draco to be in any more trouble because of him. 

Harry was still a little off his balance, but Madame Pomfrey had been quite firm in her assertion that he should get the hell out of her hospital wing.  Harry didn't mind as much as he thought he would, it didn't take much prodding for him to leave. Hermione had nearly suffered an apoplexy over it while Harry just put his shoes on and headed out.  He had taken a bath in the prefect's bathroom, relaxed in the soapy water and let the blood wash off of him, then returned to his dungeons, intent on becoming a permanent fixture in them. 

The light irritated his eyes, so he chose the shadow of the dungeons instead. He felt like himself down here, anything that happened down here didn't matter, to him or to anyone. Draco shouldn't have found him, he shouldn't have saved him, or tried to – the Slytherin should have let nature take its course.  Nothing would change – when Harry Potter died, Harry Potter died – there would be neither a cosmic rift nor a public outcry at his passing. It was only one life, one death, one infinitesimal speck of dust settling on the floor, and it was of very little consequence.  Harry wished… he almost wished that he had died.  Died with Voldemort, or at the very least, died last week when he was stabbed.  It would have been the perfect ending, and the rest of the world could have gotten on without him. 

Light fingertips ghosted over his arms, gentle and fleeting as a breeze, but there was no breeze this far under the castle.  "Malfoy." He said softly as the touch solidified into an entire hand that settled on his shoulder.  

"Potter." A curt greeting despite his closeness.  Harry stayed still against the wall, calmly breathing.  Draco expected Harry to speak, but he didn't, "I mean… I think I know why you… why aren't you in the hospital wing? It's only been a week, why on earth did they let you out?" 

Harry shrugged and it pulled the scar on his back, "Pomfrey kicked me out."  

"Why? When Neville broke his wrist she kept him in there for hours! You wake up and she just shoves you out? You're Harry bloody Potter!"  Draco was incensed, he didn't know why, but if that's how the school treated their heroes, he didn't ever want to be injured.

To his surprise, Harry just shrugged again and laughed a little. "It's okay. I think… she doesn't know how to handle me.   I think since… well, you know, Voldemort, everyone's a little afraid. Of me I mean." 

"I'm not."

"I know." Harry smiled genuinely as he thought of something, "I wanted to ask you something…. What did you say?"

"What do you mean?" 

"When you found me.  Or… when McGonagall asked you about how you found me.  Ron told me that she gave you veritaserum, and I want to know what you said."  

"Oh."  Draco snorted and thought about the question, "She didn't.  I mean, she didn't give me veritaserum… I guess it was enough that I dragged your corpse up three flights of stairs and suffered a "you were out of bed" punishment, so… no.  I guess I didn't have to lie or tell the truth, because all she did was ask me where I found you.  Not why, or how, or… anything really."  

Harry scowled, that just wasn't fair, not at all, every time he did anything right, wrong, or otherwise, people bombarded him with questions.  He sighed, there was nothing to be done about it now, and maybe it was a good thing, "Okay.  I got my answer, so what are you doing down here?"

Harry realized his mistake now, it was Draco's smell, the blonde would never be caught dead drunk, or stinking of animals.  The person behind him, the only person that consistently found him down here had always smelled like fresh snow, that delicate mixture of firewood and ice, soap and expensive, well worked leather; he smelled like winter, looked like winter, even felt like winter.  With a jolt, Harry realized that Draco Malfoy was extremely cold; Harry could feel Draco's icy breath on his neck he shivered, "What have you been eating?"

"I had ice cream at dinner." Was the cool response, Draco's hand wrapped around his arm and drew him in. "Potter… I need to… we need to talk." 

"Okay." Harry made to turn around, but Draco didn't let him, he held him in place by wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders and clamping one hand over Harry's mouth.  

"Don't." The grip tightened, he couldn't do this, he shouldn't be here at all. But he was, he was here, and he couldn't back down now.  "Please don't turn around, I don't think… I can't tell you this when you're looking at me.  Just… don't interrupt me because I don't think I'll be able to start again." 

Harry nodded slowly behind Draco's hand and made a muffled sound, "Mm Khn Mreevf Mmfyy."*

Draco's hand inched away from Harry's mouth, "What?"  

Harry gasped and slumped against Draco, "Whew. Thanks for that, I couldn't breathe." He settled himself against Draco's expensive robes and took a few deep breaths, knowing from experience that he wouldn't get free until Malfoy let him go.  "Keep talking."  

Draco too took a deep breath and shuddered, "Well… I've had quite a bit of time to think about things, with you… dying you know, and I've just… I think I know what you mean now." 

It was Draco's turn to scowl, he didn't want to say what he had come here to say, he would much rather just pretend he was here to kill again.  He tightened his grip on Harry, crushing his arms as he buried his nose in Harry's shoulder.  "Potter, you have to swear to me you're not going to say anything.  You don't get to laugh, or…. Nothing, say nothing!" 

Harry nodded his tentative smile disappearing.

"You're right I mean.  You're absolutely right." He closed his eyes, letting the world around him disappear. It was just like talking to his mirror in practice, "I was really, really afraid when I thought you'd died.  I didn't know what I was going to do, because you were always there, I could always count on you to be there, someone I could hate no matter what, and then you changed.  Voldemort almost killed you, and I didn't understand. I was so caught up in my father, and my home life, that I didn't realize what killing you would do to me." The words were coming easier now, this was just practice "Last night I had a dream about you.  I killed you, and you weren't there to hate anymore, you weren't a ghost, and there was no one to save me from myself.  I've always been selfish and a liar, I know that, but when I saw you down here, with all that blood I just couldn't let you die. I kept telling myself that I wanted to kill you but… letting you die, killing you, it would ruin me.  I wouldn't have anything left because evil needs good to be evil, to be anything, and I like being, I like existing!  

"I know you think you aren't any good to anybody. I can see it, you keep yourself down here like a ghost with self esteem issues, you're worse than Moaning Myrtle, but you're not dead yet Potter.  I don't know or care about anyone else, but I need you here. I miss the old you, why haven't you hexed me yet? Why haven't you at least tried to defend yourself? Can't you at least _try _to stay alive? Because… I can't… life would be pointless if I couldn't irritate you."  

Draco opened his eyes and winced, the words were like birds released from a cage, there would be no catching them now.  He wanted to commit suicide, he had basically told Harry that he needed him to survive, and no matter how he'd changed, Harry Potter was still Harry Potter.  And he was laughing. Harry Potter was laughing at him, Draco wanted to throw himself off a bridge, perhaps a leap from the Astronomy Tower would be well prescribed this evening. 

"You idiot." Harry laughed, turning around in Draco's stiff grasp to bury his face in Draco's shoulder, "I keep telling you you're the most honest person I know. Why don't you ever listen to me?"  Harry realized something while Draco was speaking. In fact, he had endured the entire monologue not listening, but realizing, this all made perfect sense in the most bizarre Dr. Sues tale ever, but nothing fit in real life.  That was just the way Harry liked things.  He wasn't looking for perfect clarity down here in the dungeons, just somewhere he fit without lies or deception, something up front, honest, and familiar. He'd found it. He found it in the winter that was Draco Malfoy, he'd found more than just a contenting environment, but somewhere he truly liked to be.  Harry hadn't _liked_ anything in a very long time. He kept his friends out of a sense of duty, he returned to the Dursleys because he had no where else to go, he respected his teachers because it was obligatory, but he didn't _like _anything… until now.  He felt at home here, breathing in the warm leather and the wizarding soap, the ice and the wood smoke that was his worst enemy to-date.  "You know what Draco? I don't think I could live without you either."

~

"Potter? Mr. Potter?" The voice called to him from far away, through a fog. "Harry Potter are you awake? Harry?"  

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Too Many Times to Count came back to himself with a start.  He groaned and shook his head to clear it, above him loomed the all too familiar face of Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, transfigurations master extraordinaire, and perpetual thorn in the side of all miscreant students.  

"I see you're awake Mister Potter, it's nice to have you among the land of the living once again. It was quite a nasty fall you took down that flight of stairs, how are you feeling?"  

All at once there was a flurry of activity, Professor Dumbledore entered through the door with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, followed closely by Ron and Hermione.  They all three bombarded him with questions until Madame Pomfrey shoved everyone, including Dumbledore and McGonagall out and shoved chocolate down Harry's throat.  It was the strangest thing Harry had ever experienced. He had adamantly exclaimed that Dumbledore was dead, though the evidence seemed to say otherwise, and it took three tellings of Harry's Harrowing Fall Down the Staircase before Harry was convinced it was all a dream. A very confusing dream.

Harry had fallen down the stairs on his way to breakfast, but half way down the conveniently banister free staircase, his body weight shifted and he fell right off the side. Fortunately he was on the stairs closest to the ground floor and only fell about 20 feet, but he was knocked unconscious and, by all accounts, had one singularly fascinating dream.  Once convinced that he was fine, Madame Pomfrey released him into his classes with a dire warning about the dangers of staircases.  

He was just in time for lunch, and it was a fortunate thing because the sticky-sweet chocolate taste still lingered on his tongue, and he really needed to wash it out.  He was surrounded by friends, some of whom had died in his dream, and he experienced a very strange sense of de'ja'vu as they all wished him well.  Harry just managed to shove a sandwich in his mouth as he told Hermione of his dream (well, most of it) and ran to potions. 

Everything was normal.  So completely normal, he felt as though he'd been down this hall a thousand times, and he had, but there was something lingering about his dream.  It was fading from memory now, Snape snarled at him and told him to take a seat, Ron made nasty comments behind Snape's back, and life fell into the comfortable rhythm it held before.  

Harry tripped and very nearly fell flat on his face as a foot was thrust in front of him.  Taking a moment to stop and glare at his attacker, he realized that it was Draco Malfoy, the bane of his existence. He stood, waiting for the snarky comment that he knew would follow the foot, and wasn't disappointed, "Don't trip Potter." 

Harry smiled, "I wouldn't dream of it." 

Malfoy looked aghast; he had the sour look of one whose comments failed to gain attention. Harry wasn't supposed to be carefree; he was supposed to be insulted.  "Merlin's Beard, Potter, are you always such a klutz?" he asked disdainfully, "you scuffed my boot."

Harry shook his head, he could feel his face coloring, but did nothing to conceal it. It was so like a Malfoy to worry more for a shoe than the life of a human being. "No Malfoy. But some days are just fucked up."

Their gazes locked, and somewhere in the background, Snape was busy yelling orders at his class. 

* lol, yes, one of my only in-text authors notes.  That was supposed to translate into "I can't breathe, Malfoy!" but I don't know how well it turned out. You know how some writers are really magnificent at figuring out how muffled things should sound in our 26 character alphabet? Well… I'm not. I must have been sitting in my living room for an hour with a hand over my mouth saying the same phrase over and over, and it's STILL not what I wanted it to be. Hmm.  (It got a good laugh out of my sister though) 

Anyway… yeah, it makes me sad to say, that was the last chapter. There is an alternate ending that I will be posting as soon as I have the kinks out, so fear not, if you hated me for my complete lack of sappy ness (I do try. Lol) then the alternate should make up for it.  Well… it's been nice, please don't forget to review. 


	6. Only for you would I dare post this trip...

**Author's Notes: **Okay, this part is EXTREMELY sweet! This is the chapter/semi chapter that will have you all running for you tooth brushes. In fact, I'm putting a dental disclaimer in here because it's guaranteed to give you cavities (seriously, it creeps me out that I wrote this).  Personally, I liked the first ending better, because it leaves things to the imagination, and frankly, it's the perfect set up for a sequel "What happens between Draco and Harry now? What was that look/glance sharing about? What will happen with Voldemort? Will Harry's dream prove prophetic, and will he move to change his life (Like in Groundhog day lol)?" Yes, the sequel possibilities are endless, a sequel that I will only write if you REALLY REALLY beg me (though somehow I doubt you will).  In any case, this is sweet, for the lovers of sap and happiness out there (I'm a closet happiness fan, I'll admit it… though isn't that not being so closeted? Ah well, it's parenthetical, it's in the closet. Lol), so enjoy. Again, sorry if spelling sucks. 

**Disclaimers: **The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun. Oh, and 

_Some Days_

~

"Potter? Potter?" The voice called to him from far away, through a fog. "Harry Potter are you in there Potter? Harry?"  

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Too Many Times to Count came back to himself with a start.  "Hmm? What?"

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes and affectionately twirled a strand of black hair between his fingers, "Where were you?" He asked with a shake of his head as he placed a gentle kiss on Harry's forehead, the scar had faded over time, the ultimate symbol of Voldemort's demise.  "I've been trying to get your attention for at least fifteen minutes."  

"Oh. I'm sorry." Harry muttered, snuggling closer to Draco. Life hadn't been the same since his sixth year, it hadn't been even close to normal since Voldemort attacked and upset the delicate balance Hogwarts, and the tentative hold Harry had on happiness.  He was all too sane before and after the attack, but he had suffered misery for too long.  Now that the dust had settled, life was good again, it had been quite a task recovering his academic achievements, but Harry had pulled through and scraped up enough N.E.W.T.s to do anything he wanted.  It wasn't much, he just wanted true happiness, something most people had a difficult time finding. But Harry was always fortunate in his friends, and he had found his happiness relatively early on in life. Happiness in the form of a human being.  Lying here, next to Draco Malfoy, his personal Happiness and polar opposite, and Harry was the most content person on the face of the planet.  Never mind how their acceptance of each other had developed into a physical relationship, when crushing grasps had become gentle hugs, but it had happened, and Harry couldn't be happier.  

"So where were you?"  Draco asked again, shaking Harry's shoulder so he couldn't slip off into oblivion again.

Harry sighed, "I was just… day dreaming." 

"You do that too often you know."  Draco said matter-of-factly, "you don't spend nearly enough time in the real world."

"So?" Harry asked rhetorically, "what's the big deal about 'the real world'?" 

Draco sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, "You are the most frustrating human being alive! I don't know why I put up with you!" 

"Because you love me."

"That is entirely beside the point.  There comes a time in life when you have to live in the real world! You have to work, and be an active member of society – no one can tolerate a day dreamer."

Harry laughed, "If I didn't know better, I would say you were mad at me." He teased, flicking Draco's nose, "You know perfectly well that I'm an 'active member of society' and I only day dream when I think I have time. For you information, I was just thinking about you, appealing to your ego.  Stupid jerk."  

Draco tackled and tickled Harry, their fighting had become somewhat more productive than it had been in the past, though not much.  Harry shrieked and squirmed as Draco's face lit with an unholy, even malicious smile, "Ego!  I'll show you ego you pretentious prat.  You're the one that insists on living in your own fantasy, what? Is this world not good enough for you, have to live in the past?" It was teasing, they both knew it, everything was fun and games because there was nothing left to fight about.  

"Oh!  Stop! Stop I give up, it's too much! Please stop!" Harry gasped out between giggles and shrieks, "You win you win!" 

"I always win Potter." Draco said smugly, ceasing his ruthless tickling and gently kissing Harry again.

"Whatever you say Malfoy."


End file.
